


Flames Flames On My...Thigh

by audreycritter



Series: Cor Et Cerebrum [45]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Crack Fic, Fluff, Gen, as close as i get to fluff anyway, i blame discord and also izombie, no profreading we die like mne, tw blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Falling asleep in a costume is a mistake, especially if it's not like, a vigilante costume.
Relationships: Kiran "Dev" Devabhaktuni & Bruce Wayne
Series: Cor Et Cerebrum [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/549964
Comments: 21
Kudos: 196





	Flames Flames On My...Thigh

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a picture of Rahul Kohli (a facecast fave) in an iZombie episode. Just google iZombie dance episode. You'll thank me later.

The rustling in the bathroom isn’t loud because Bruce Wayne can’t be quiet. It’s loud because he _wants_ to be noticed— an announcement of his presence, gentler and less direct than calling out. That’s why it’s no surprise when, a minute or so into his search for bandaids in the bathroom vanity cabinet, a form fills the doorway.

Dev is still rubbing sleep from his eyes, groggy but far from shocked at Bruce standing in his bathroom at three in the morning. 

“Where are your plasters,” Bruce says, when he sees him in his peripheral. A bottle falls towards the sink and he catches it with one hand, and then the one that follows it, too. “I’ve looked in the kitchen already. You had some last month when—”

He looks over.

Dev blinks tiredly at him.

Bruce stares for a moment. “What the hell are you wearing.”

Dev looks down, as if mildly surprised to see himself in the sleeveless black unitard with bright orange and red flames up and down one side. The collar is popped.

A flush climbs up out past the collar and toward Dev’s ears, almost as bright as the flame detailing. He crosses his arms. 

“I’ve just gotten back from a costume party, if you must know, and I fell asleep the moment I sat down because I was bloody shattered and, bugger me, but I’m getting old. Too old to be out until one in the sodding morning drinking coffee, that’s for bloody certain.”

At some point during this speech, his hands end up on his hips instead, and his scowl is deep.

“You’re left yourself quite a bit of room to talk, then,” Dev adds.

Bruce frowns. “You don’t like coffee.”

“I loathe it, but I needed it. You’re bleeding on my sink, mate.”

Bruce looks down at the blood dripping from his extended arm, onto the white porcelain of the sink. It’s seeping a stain across his pink robe. 

“Because I can’t find your damn plasters. This cabinet is a mess.”

“You mean you’ve made it a mess, looking. Stay right there,” Dev orders, and he disappears from the doorway. 

Bruce holds the bleeding arm aloft so it drips only into the sink and not onto the floor, and with his other hand, starts rearranging the contents of the cabinet. 

When Dev returns, its with his medkit.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the closed toilet. “We’ve got to clean that. It needs a bit more than a plaster; I can tell without seeing it.”

With a frustrated glance at the cabinet, Bruce sits and peels the sticky robe sleeve off his arm. 

“I can’t take you seriously in that,” Bruce says, while Dev examines the cut on his arm and dabs experimentally at it with some gauze.

“Mate,” Dev replies, “you’ve shown up in pants and a robe and it’s well past three. It’s a sodding wonder I ever take you seriously, at all. This needs sutures. How’d it happen?”

“Grapple line. Snapped and cut through the gauntlet. Didn’t realize it was bleeding until I went upstairs, and if I went back down Alfred would wake up and notice. So I left.”

“Through the window, then,” Dev guesses. 

Bruce nods.

“And when was the last time you slept, then.”

“Hn,” Bruce says, shaking himself slightly and blinking furiously. The prick of local anesthetic in his arm helps some. “If I have to guess, what is the margin for error that will not get me yelled at.”

“Too long ago,” Dev surmises. “Don’t guess. The plasters are in the hall closet, the next time you come looking. Take the bed when I’m done.”

“But it’s yours,” Bruce says. He has the gradual and distant awareness that he is sounding more and more stupid, perhaps has sounded so all along. 

“Which makes it mine to loan,” Dev answers. “Hold still. Nearly done.”

Bruce glances at the neat little row of sutures on his arm and tries to say thank you, but doesn’t manage more than mouthing the words. 

“Any chance I can convince you later this was a dream?” Dev asks, zipping the kit shut. “The costume, at least.”

“None. I took a picture.” Bruce rouses himself more by forcing himself to stand. The room spins some and Dev’s hand is under his elbow, steadying him.

“Bollocks,” Dev hisses, with a sigh. “Go sleep, you wanker. I’ve got to find it and delete it before I pass out again.”

Bruce, head swimming and arm numb, idly realizes how late it is and that this is not the Manor and that he probably left his bedroom window open when he more or less fell into the hedge. 

He leans forward and kisses Dev’s cheek and stumbles away toward the bedroom, away from the surprised look and then ducked away smile.

“Sleep well, sweetheart,” he says, in a voice he hopes is smooth but sounds to his own ears slightly drunk. 

“You too, darling. What’s your mobile passcode, then. I’ve got to ring Alfie.”

“I’m not making it that easy. Use your own phone.”

“Bloody hell,” he hears Dev mutter behind him. 

“There’s no picture,” Bruce says. “I lied.”

“Of course you sodding did. Wait, wait a moment, give me that robe. Don’t get blood all over my sodding sheets.”

Bruce shrugs it off, drops it on the floor, and is out before he hits the mattress.


End file.
